


the fire of a thousand suns

by polkadot



Series: la vache et le dauphin [5]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Comfort, Fluff and Angst, I Love You, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Benoit loses a heartbreaking match, Stan drops everything to go to his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fire of a thousand suns

**Author's Note:**

> So this is, as you might guess, a cathartic piece written in the immediate aftermath of Benoit's loss to Kei. 
> 
> You don't need to know the details of that loss to understand this fic. Except that Benoit got docked a point on set point in the second set due to a coaching violation (he'd already got a code warning for racquet abuse, that was why a point was taken). He was not happy about it - or about the rest of the match, really.
> 
> As always, imagine this to be a translation of the actual French. :)
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : These are fictional characters doing fictional things. Nothing is implied about the actual Benoit and Stan.
> 
> ~//~

There are some things Stan shouldn’t do. Some things he very much shouldn’t do.

“Stan,” Ben says, his expression a conflicted mix of frustration and dejection, and buries his face in Stan’s shoulder.

One of the things that Stan shouldn’t do is to interrupt his own match preparation when he’s in the round of 32 at Roland-Garros. A second is to risk his state of mind by attempting to console a distraught boyfriend. A third is to console said boyfriend in a corner of the Roland-Garros locker room – a secluded one, yes, but a corner nonetheless.

All that went out the window, though, when Stan saw Benoit’s face on the television, and all he could think about was getting to Ben’s side as fast as humanly possible.

After that first cry of Stan’s name, Benoit hasn’t said another word. He’s breathing, fast and harsh, into the side of Stan’s neck, his frame quivering under Stan’s hands. Stan rubs slow circles on his back, calming, soothing, reassuring; he’s helpless to change what has happened, but here and now, this he can do. He can be the rock for Benoit’s tempestuous sea.

“Ben,” he says, softly, trying to put even a quarter of what he feels into his voice.

“I could have beat him,” Benoit says, all in a rush, his voice raw and furious. “He was beatable today. He wasn’t Roger or Rafa, he was _beatable_ , and I fucked it all up, god, I fucked it all up.”

Stan brings one of his hands up, cups the back of Benoit’s head, holds him close. “Lio fucked it all up, actually,” he says - then winces, but he was trying to make Benoit laugh.

Benoit doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t swear again either, which is progress. Stan feels fingers tighten in the back of his shirt, holding on.

Anyone could come across them now, whether that be someone who’ll be awkward, like Janko, or someone who’ll try to be friendly, like Jo (which might feel even worse). Stan doesn’t care. He abruptly doesn’t care, with the fire of a thousand suns.

“Ben,” he says again, letting the hand not holding Benoit’s head drop to his waist, nevermind that they’re practically clinging to each other now. “You’ve been doing so well lately, so, so well. You’ve been making so much progress. I’m so proud of you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Benoit says, with a savage bite to his voice, although Stan doesn’t think it’s directed at him. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve still blown my chance. I could have played Rafa next. Do you know how loudly they would have cheered? A Frenchman playing Rafa…”

“And you would have done it with such flair,” Stan says, when Benoit’s voice catches. He doesn’t say, _next time_ , because he knows how much that phrase hurts. He's heard _next time_ so many times, and sometimes next time never comes. “You would have dropshotted him all the way to Bercy.”

That manages to get a laugh out of Benoit. It’s almost a sob, but it’s still a laugh, and Stan lets his eyes fall shut for a moment in relief.

“Yeah,” Benoit says, and pulls back a little. Stan opens his eyes again, looking straight at Ben, letting him see just how proud Stan still is, just how much Stan still values him.

It must help, because Benoit smiles, weakly. “Up to you now, I guess.”

Stan shrugs, one-shouldered. “Have to get past Jerzy first. And probably Richie.”

“You will,” Benoit says, with absolute certainty, and it makes Stan’s chest clench up. “You will.”

Stan smiles back at him. “For you?”

He means it to be light, but Benoit’s eyes darken, and then he’s bringing a hand up to rest it on the side of Stan’s face. “For me.”

There are a lot of things Stan shouldn’t do.

He turns his face into the caress, right there in the locker room, right there for anyone who has eyes to see, and kisses Benoit’s palm.

Benoit still looks lost, even here in the protective circle of Stan’s arms - and no wonder after a match like that. He’s played so incredibly well lately, but that match was a regression, and they both know it; under the scrutiny of the French gaze, with the eyes of a nation on him, starting to get recognised by people who’ve seen him on television, everyone willing him to win, Ben simply couldn’t hold his nerve. He’s improving so quickly these days in both calm and assurance, but he’s still so young, still so inexperienced. He’ll have a few matches like this. It’s natural.

It’s Stan’s job, though, to hold him after those matches - and natural or not, they hurt. They hurt a lot.

And rules or no rules, Stan wants the lost look gone from Benoit’s eyes. “Ben,” he says, his voice low, seeking and holding Benoit’s gaze, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

For some reason that makes Benoit blink, his hand fluttering against Stan’s cheek – but then he smiles. Stan thinks he could bask in the sunshine of that smile for a million years.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you too,” Benoit says, and then that beautiful smile turns into the teasing grin Stan knows so well. “Didn’t intend it to be after a loss like _this_ , when what I mostly want to do is smash the place and knock over that fucking umpire’s chair, but…”

“Ben,” Stan says, cutting off the flood of words, because if he doesn’t say it quickly he thinks he might lose his nerve, even now, “I…”

“I love you,” Benoit says, all in a rush, as if he can’t not say it a second longer.

Stan can’t speak for a moment, a long moment when everything seems to slow around him. The only thing that matters is the look on Ben's face. 

Then everything snaps back into motion, and Stan's huffing out a laugh, his smile threatening to split his face. “Had to be first, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait your turn?”

“Might as well win at something today,” Benoit says, and he’s not quite laughing, not yet, wounds still too fresh - but his eyes are shining, and that’s enough for Stan.

“Brat,” Stan says, affectionately, watching that shine.

They stand there grinning like idiots for a moment, Benoit’s hand still cupping the side of Stan’s face, Stan’s arms still around Ben’s back. Benoit’s got press, and all his recovery, and Lionel to deal with (Stan wonders which of them will be more pissed off at the other). Stan’s got a match to prepare for. They have places to go, people to see…but neither of them is moving, not now.

“Well?” Benoit says, impatiently. “Stop thinking. Well?”

Stan bites his lip as his grin tries to do the impossible and widen yet further. “Well what?”

“Oh my god,” Benoit says, pushing at his chest. “I hate you.”

“No taking things back,” Stan tells him. “You just said you love me.”

There are certain things Stan shouldn’t do. 

But he frankly doesn’t care.

Benoit’s opening his mouth for an indignant retort when Stan leans in to kiss him. And it’s not a perfunctory kiss, either, but a deep, thorough, fiery kiss that leaves them both breathless - because fuck it all, when Stan wants to kiss the man he loves he’s going to do it, forget what he _should_ do, and he’s going to do it wherever he wants to, even if it’s the Roland-Garros locker room. The whole world can suck it, because some things matter, and this most of all.

Benoit looks faintly dazed when Stan pulls away. It might be the exhaustion kicking in - but Stan thinks it’s mostly the kiss. 

“I love you,” Stan tells him, feeling the thrill of the words run through him, feeling their absolute rightness. “I love you, you fascinating irritating brilliantly-crazy…”

Benoit rolls his eyes and cuts him off with another kiss.

Stan has a match to prepare for that he desperately wants to win. He has a coach who will no doubt be getting annoyed at his continuing absence. He has work to do and places to be.

But as the man he loves kisses him, there’s no place in the world that Stan would rather be.

He smiles against Ben’s mouth and pulls him closer.


End file.
